a trilogy
by aces
Summary: I actually wrote this a while ago...but just now put it up. Jules and the Foggs, at a ball.
1. The Dance

This is actually the first part of a trilogy of stories--each separate part told from a different character's POV, all describing the same events (for some reason, I like to do that kind of thing). No names are ever mentioned in any of the stories, but it's *real* easy to figure out who's who (though the "he" pronouns might get a little confusing at times, hint hint). The other two parts can really be read in whatever order you feel I suppose, but I wrote them with the intention that "The Dance" ought to be read first to set up the other two, then "Fire and Ice," and last but not least "Suspended." Anyway, I don't own the nameless characters and I make no profit off this story...reviews are welcome.  
  
The Dance  
  
The steps are complicated. He isn't used to dancing.  
  
The couples move together, swirling around the brightly lit room in brightly false colors. There seems to be a haze in the air, giving the room a dreamlike quality, which is only enhanced by the oppressive heat of the crowd crammed into the grand space. He feels disconnected from it all, as if he is viewing the scene from outside a window. It all feels unreal.  
  
He concentrates on the steps, watching his feet, holding her hands in the proper positions, watching the couples around him out of the corner of his eye so he won't lead his partner into someone else, so he won't trip over someone else's foot. He is losing the thread of the beat he realizes with a trickle of panic; it's buried beneath the music, buried beneath his frantic concentration on all the other niggling little details of this complex formalized dance that he must keep in mind.  
  
He bows when the song is over, excusing himself from the next dance gratefully if not necessarily gracefully, and stumbles out of the other couples' way, finding a niche in which to stand and watch without being bothered, without bothering anyone else. His eyes roam the large room, paying particular attention to the dancers, until at last he finds her. He knows who he has been looking for; he was even fairly sure where to look. He knows her well enough by now.  
  
He is dancing with her, he is surprised to note and tries to recall ever seeing the other man dance before. He can't. Normally at these balls the older man is standing in an elegant pose, glass in hand, talking wittily while a group of people egg him on or charming somebody else (female of course), his eyes always eventually straying to her, to watch who she is dancing with or talking to this time, as he is doing now. Only he has no elegant pose, no glass to hold, no witty remarks to make to a captive crowd. He wonders if she realizes how much she is watched every day, how often the two men's eyes stray to follow her every movement.  
  
He looks slightly stiff, not his usual loose self, as he dances, as if he too isn't used to these strange movements. They don't look at each other as they dance, looking over each other's shoulders instead, their faces still, a slight smile on hers, the possibility of the beginning of a smile lurking on his. He knows that they are content, happy, that they are communicating with each other even without words or looks. He wonders if they wish the song would go on forever, so they won't have to stop the dance. She is obviously caught up in the dance and music, exhilarating in the free and easy movement. He isn't so sure about the other man.  
  
He follows their swift, silent movements around the dance floor. He tries to take his eyes away, to look elsewhere around the room, perhaps find someone he can talk to, even though he always feels awkward and out of place around these people. Even another dance partner if all else fails him. But his eyes refuse to move. Still he feels the outsider at the window looking in. Her feet can't be touching the ground, she moves so lightly and gracefully. He has always loved her grace, her strength, her dazzling beauty.  
  
The partners' lives are a dance; he knows this after having watched them both for so long. Complicated, dangerous moves, stepping lightly and delicately around any feelings they don't want to or can't admit to, afraid lest they tread on each other's toes. Still they keep dancing, changing the steps when the music changes, changing the pace when the beat and rhythm changes. He knows she will never trip and fall, but he isn't so sure about the other man.  
  
The song ends.  
  
They clap, they bow, they look around for acquaintances with which to occupy themselves now that their dance is over, and her eyes fall upon him, as they always somehow manage to do at these occasions, no matter how insignificant and overlooked he might be considered by everyone else at the party, no matter how insignificant and overlooked he might feel. She is always looking out for him, taking care of him like a mother or older sister would, wherever they go. At these functions that he so rarely attends, she has a dance or two with him; she introduces him to people and makes sure a conversation is comfortably started before slipping away to one of her numerous friends, enemies, or mere acquaintances, reasonably certain he can now fend for himself without being too unbearably gauche or rude.  
  
She smiles when she sees him, and immediately she begins threading her way toward him, maneuvering easily around the crowds of people with years of practice in her cumbersome (if gorgeous and expensive) ball gown. Her hair falls down past her shoulders, curling in what seems an utterly perfect and natural way. She is always beautiful.  
  
He finds himself smiling reflexively back and waiting politely for her to join him, acting for all the world as if his thoughts are idle, unimportant fancies and appropriate for anyone to hear. Sometimes his face knows exactly what mask to wear, knows exactly what friendly but completely disinterested look to keep in place so that no one knows what he is truly thinking and feeling. He looks around for her cousin, but the older man has melted into the crowd.  
  
"Dance with me?" she asks expectantly, still with that beautifully ignorant smile on her face. Perhaps she isn't completely ignorant--how could she be? She knows him too well; he can be too obvious, too expressive of his emotions--but his mask is still working in his favor at this moment, and she doesn't know what he has been thinking or that he has been watching her dance all this time.  
  
He shakes his head shyly, trying to make his excuses--she knows how bad a dancer he is--but as always, she will have none of it, dragging him into a free space amongst the other dancing couples. He doubts anyone can refuse her when she sets her mind to something. She guides his hands to the right places but waits for him to begin their movement around the floor. He wants to tell her she might as well lead too, but of course he doesn't.  
  
The song is slow, haunting. He finds himself responding to the music in a way he never could before while dancing, the song gripping him. After a while, his eyes even leave his feet and he lets himself merely move to the music, unworried by the thought of anyone's feet getting in the way. Unworried by the thought of tripping and falling.  
  
His eyes fall onto her face now that he is looking away from his feet, and he gladly takes the chance to watch her, take note of the lines around her mouth caused by the slight smile curving her lips softly up. She is staring into space dreamily, allowing herself to be led around the floor by him. He wishes he knew what could make her smile like that. He notices the loosened curl hanging ticklishly close to her ear, wishing he could brush it away; he sees the way her bangs fall almost into her clear blue eyes, shading them; he memorizes the color of her skin under this light, this close to his face, and only hopes he can hold onto the memory. The rest of the room falls away; he exists in his own world with only his dancing partner and the melancholy music. Even the music is elusive, dreamlike, not entirely connected to his world. She is the only reality that matters.  
  
She wakes from whatever reverie she is having and glances at him, an affectionate and indulgent smile on her face for a split second, altering to slight startlement when she realizes his eyes aren't safely on his feet for once. He has never had such close direct eye contact with her before.  
  
And for once, he doesn't look away in awkward embarrassment, doesn't blush and cringe inwardly at himself for being such a hopelessly romantic ass. He holds her gaze. It isn't a conscious decision; he is barely aware of what he is trying to show her, as if he is now an outsider to his own body and can only watch what he himself does. And he finds he doesn't care that he isn't in charge of himself at the moment.  
  
She frowns in bemusement, then studies his face thoughtfully, his eyes especially, until finally a slight beginning of some realization dawns on her face. Something slams down over her eyes, a barrier, and she looks away, over his shoulder, an impassive if stiff look on her face. She seems to straighten, to pull herself away from him though she can't very well go far while still dancing with him.  
  
He has no choice but to look away as well.  
  
He keeps the dance going because the song is not finished. And he knows they have their own complicated dance as well, and he will have to be careful not to trip and fall. He knows she never will. 


	2. Fire and Ice

Right, another part of the trilogy. All the stuff I said for "The Dance" still applies. Something I forgot before--this takes place somewhere in the first season, toward the end I think. (How would I know? I'm only writing the bloody piece...)  
  
Oh, yes, I don't recall it ever being mentioned if Fogg was a good dancer or not...if he *is* actually, then just remember this is purely fantasy, and try not to let that niggling little detail get in the way of your pleasure or interest in the story. Please? ;-)  
  
Fire and Ice  
  
He is watching her like always.  
  
She is hard to miss, even at these functions, filled with beautiful women dressed in even more beautiful frocks. She blazes in comparison to the rest of them.  
  
And he finds tonight he doesn't want to merely watch her surreptitiously, take note of who she dances with, chats with, flirts with, hoping she doesn't notice his constant attention but suspecting she does even though she never says anything. He wants to be the one she is dancing with, chatting with, flirting with.  
  
Well, he'll settle for one of the three at least.  
  
So he approaches her and asks her to dance, keeping his voice cool, disinterested. Showing it won't matter how she answers. But he knows she will accept, because there really are very few ways to refuse politely, even to one's cousin, and because they haven't danced together in ages. She is forever cajoling him to dance more at these occasions. He's never understood why.  
  
She moves so easily, he notes once again, part in admiration, part in envy. He hates to dance, hates being reminded there is this physical endeavor at least that he has never felt comfortable mastering. Still, he can fake it with the best of them. But she doesn't need to feign anything-- once again he admires her strength, her litheness, the delicate grace of her light movements around the ballroom.  
  
She is looking over his shoulder, dreaming he thinks. He allows her to, because there are so few times she allows herself to relax and dream. Neither of them do it very often, nor very well, now that he considers it. So he looks over her shoulder and dreams as well, sufficiently aware of her to mirror her every move, take note of her every expression out of the corner of his eye, sense the fiery passion she is allowing to die down for the evening as she relaxes and enjoys herself fully. And even as she cools off, he can feel himself warm, his icy demeanor falling away in her presence. Like always.  
  
He knows his place. He knows exactly where they stand with each other. He knows their boundaries, their limitations, how far they can push each other before she burns him or he turns her cold. So when the music ends, he takes his leave smoothly, coolly, quickly, slipping away before she can speak to him, before he can give too much away when neither of them are ready.  
  
He wants to be left alone for a moment, to collect himself, to cool off. He finds a niche in which to stand without being bothered. And once again his eyes stray to her of their own accord, as always with an almost frightening ease, picking out the fiery gleam of her red-gold hair, the blazing sparkle of jewels in her tresses and on her pale, smooth skin. Her fire always draws him.  
  
She is dancing--ah, with him. Of course. She is always taking care of him, almost shepherding him at these balls; they both know full well the boy is hopeless by himself. She takes care of them all, really.  
  
And he knows she enjoys his company, takes great pleasure in his youthful optimism. As he does himself--that passion can save him from his own cynicism, his own self-destructive tendencies, tendencies that hurt others rather than himself.  
  
But not as much as her passion. Not as much as her fire. The boy is also studying her as they dance--has he ever been able to look up before from the floor while dancing? Has he ever been able to study her face before like that, so seriously, so completely, unimpeded by embarrassment or fear that she would notice his intense attentions? Eyes unguarded, honest, even unafraid. He isn't a boy, he realizes in that moment with a spark of some emotion he can't or won't as yet allow himself to identify. He is a young man and perhaps wiser and more understanding than either of the cousins put together.  
  
She meets the young man's glance and after her initial surprise holds it consideringly, with almost the same serious, complex look as he has on his face. Something moves in her eyes, a certain fire burns out inside her, and she looks quickly away from her dancing partner, an unreadable look on her face as she holds herself straighter, more regally, more proudly.  
  
He watches the young man turn his gaze, now expressionless and unreadable, away as well, watches them finish the dance mechanically, and he remains deep in thought. He wonders if the young man understands now what he himself has always known, if the young man has finally and fully realized the others' relationship to each other in that thorough study of her--that she is his fire, he is her ice. 


	3. Suspended

The last part of the dance at the ball trilogy--all that's been said before still applies here. ;-)  
  
Suspended  
  
"May I have the honor of this dance?"  
  
He has walked straight up to her, smoothly, coolly, almost but not quite insolently. Nothing unusual in that, though the request he makes is certainly unexpected from him.  
  
Of course she accepts, lightly taking his hand and allowing him to lead her onto the floor. There are so few times he willingly dances at one of these balls; she isn't going to miss the chance to be his partner this time. He moves so well, with such an admirable economy and grace in fencing, in hand-to-hand combat, in just about every other physical activity he attempts, that it is rather sweet to feel this unaccustomed stiffness of his body as he feigns ease with these difficult, alien moves. And there is always the secret delight in bettering him at something.  
  
They never look at each other the few times they do dance together. There is no need. Simply being this close to each other is enough to speak volumes.  
  
And besides, there is a simplicity in allowing themselves this dance. A relief, to move in concert without having to fight, without having to kill. To use their deep connection with each other for something as simple as a dance, theirs and others' lives not depending for once on their ability to read each other's mind. It is a moment in which to suspend thought, to quit planning her moves ahead for the days to come, and simply enjoy--existing. In his arms. She finds herself wishing the song will go on forever, that she will never have to give up this blissful, uncomplicated moment with him.  
  
Foolish.  
  
With that thought, she comes back to herself, all her keen senses reawakening themselves after their brief respite. She can feel herself being watched, but she suppresses her instinctive reactions to that ugly feeling with a practiced ease, having known full well for many years that she can't avoid being looked at--both covertly and more obviously--at a society ball.  
  
They applaud the orchestra politely and bow to each other when the music finishes, and he immediately strolls away as if he has discharged a duty to his satisfaction and has no more need to think about it. She isn't put out by it very much, though she does wish he'd given her the chance to speak with him. She is used to his ways, as he is to hers. They understand each other. She is grateful for that, grateful that they don't yet ask each other for more.  
  
She looks around, and only after she finds him--looking straight back at her in fact, she notices with a tiny shock--does she realize for whom she has instinctively been checking up on. He is alone again, a solitary and lonely figure in the formal dress required for this sort of occasion which he so rarely attends. It suits him very well, but she would never tell him that and embarrass him. She smiles at him warmly, easily, as always glad to see his sweet, friendly face. She begins making her way toward him. He smiles back openly, like always, comforting and safe in his familiarity.  
  
"Dance with me?" she asks him. She wants the easy movement of the dance to continue, to suspend and take pleasure in the simple magic of the evening. She hasn't felt this free from her worries in a long time. Besides, she can't leave the poor dear alone in a corner like this, and while he doesn't seem to have realized it, his dancing skills have certainly been improving. She doesn't think she will tell him that either-- not for a while yet, even though there is no danger of him becoming big- headed because of his skills and talents. Unlike certain other people she knows.  
  
He blushes, looking away with that boyish bashfulness that is so endearing, muttering something about how he can't possibly or some such nonsense. She takes his hand and pulls him onto the dance floor proper; he goes willingly. She smiles. She knows his excuses mean nothing; he has only said them because he always says them; it is almost expected of him, a ritual they must both go through before reaching the desired end. That awkward embarrassment is as much a part of him as his faith in human nature and passion about life and the future--she wonders if he will ever grow out of it. She wonders if she wants him to grow out of it, and she finds herself fiercely wishing she could suspend this moment with him, keep him young and vibrant and innocent. The horrors he is growing accustomed to facing with them just aren't the same as the mundane, trivial horrors that affect everyone. Like disillusionment. Growing old. Loneliness.  
  
But these thoughts are for another time, she tells herself firmly. Enjoy this moment, enjoy this dance, enjoy this night, simply for itself. Lay the plans and worries aside to deal with tomorrow. It will come soon enough.  
  
She loses herself in the music, in the slow, stately movement across the dance floor. He really is doing a marvelous job tonight, she realizes with a lazy elation, and turns her face to look down at him, as she sometimes likes to do when they dance together. She often secretly and without his knowing delights in the fierce look of concentration on his face as he tries to keep count of the steps in his head. It is an indulgence on her part, but a shameless one. And he never knows.  
  
He is watching her.  
  
It takes her a frozen and uneasy moment of confusion, knowing something is off without knowing what, to realize that his eyes aren't latched onto his feet at all but rather onto her face. She frowns at him inquiringly, not understanding the peculiar and serious look on his face that she has never seen on his countenance before. And then the frown melts away from her face as she studies him anew, as if she is seeing him truly for the first time. For an instant she feels they are suspended, frozen while the rest of the world dances on around them in blissful ignorance.  
  
There is something in his eyes, in the tilt of his head, in the line of his mouth, which warns her perhaps he isn't as innocent and embarrassed as she thought. Her illusion feels shattered. He is growing up. She doesn't want to know. He has betrayed her somehow. Invaded a privacy he should have left alone.  
  
She looks away, angry at him for trying to reveal something to her she refuses to deal with or even acknowledge, angry at herself for her foolishness. She knows nothing will come of this dance, knows their lives will go back immediately to the way they were before and that both of them will forget this unexpected intrusion--she knows it because it has happened to her so many times before. But the moment is gone. The eternity of the rest of the dance seems suspended forever before her. 


End file.
